The lawyer sat in stony silence. His grave face was accusing in its set expression, and she felt it and was spurred on to do still deeper injustice to herself--an insane perversity.

"Not that I care a cent--I'm not jealous of her. I ain't so bad off for company as she is. She can't take anybody away from me, but she must go and break down my faith in the judge."

She bit her lips to keep from crying out. She looked out of the window again, seeking control.

The "divorce colony" never appeared more sickening in its inner corruptions than when delineated by this dainty young girl. Allen could see the swarming men about the hotels; he could see their hot, leering eyes and smell their liquor-laden breaths as they named the latest addition to the colony or boasted of their a.s.sociations with those already well known.

The girl turned suddenly to her companion.

"How do those people live out here on their farms?"

She pointed at a small shanty where the whole family stood to watch the train go by.

"By eating boiled potatoes and salt pork."

"Salt pork!" she echoed, as if salt pork were old boot-heels or bark or hay. "Why, it takes four hours for salt pork to digest!"

He laughed again at her childish irrelevancy. "So much the better for the poor. Where'd you learn all that, anyway?"

"At school. Oh, you needn't look so incredulous! I went to boarding school. I learned a good deal more than you think."

"Well, so I see. Now, I should have said pork digested in three hours, speaking from experience."

"Well, it don't. What do the women do out here?"

"They work like the men, only more so."

"Do they have any new things?"

"Not very often, I'm afraid."

She sighed. After a pause she said:

"You were raised on a farm?"

"Yes. In Minnesota."

"Did you do work like that?" She pointed at a thrashing machine in the field.

"Yes, I plowed and sowed and reaped and mowed. I wasn't on the farm for my health."

"You're very strong, aren't you?" she asked admiringly.

"In a slab-sided kind of a way--yes."

Her eyes grew abstracted.

"I like strong men. Ollie was a little man, not any taller than I am, but when he was drunk he was what men call a--a--holy terror. He struck me with the water pitcher once--that was just before baby was born. I wish he'd killed me." She ended in a sudden reaction to hopeless bitterness. "It would have saved me all these months of life in this terrible country."

"It might have saved you from more than you think," he said quietly, tenderly.

"What do you mean?"

"You've been brought up against women and men who have defiled you.

They've made your future uncertain."

"Do you think it's so bad as that? Tell me!" she insisted, seeing his hesitation.

"You're on the road to h.e.l.l!" he said, in a voice that was very low, but it reached her. It was full of pain and grave reprimand and gentleness.

"You've been poisoned. You're in need of a good man's help. You need the companionship of good, earnest women instead of painted harlots."

Her voice shook painfully as she replied:

"You don't think I'm _all_ bad?"

"You're not bad at all--you're simply reckless. _You_ are not to blame.

It depends upon yourself now, though, whether you keep a true woman or go to h.e.l.l with Mrs. Sh.e.l.lberg."

The conductor eyed them as he pa.s.sed, with an unpleasant light in his eyes, and the drummers a few seats ahead turned to look at them. The tip had pa.s.sed along from lip to lip. They were like wild beasts roused by the presence of prey. Their eyes gleamed with relentless l.u.s.t. They eyed the little creature with ravening eyes. Her helplessness was their opportunity.

Allen, sitting there, saw the terror and tragedy of the girl's life. Her reckless, prodigal girlhood; the coa.r.s.e, rich father; the marriage, when a thoughtless girl, with a drunken, dissolute boy; the quarrels, brutal beatings; the haste to secure a divorce; the contamination of the crowded hotels in Heron Lake--and this slender young girl, naturally pure, alert, quick of impulse--she was like a lamb among l.u.s.tful wolves.

His heart ached for her.

The deep, slow voice of the lawyer sounded on. His eyes turned toward her had no equivocal look. He was a brother speaking to a younger sister. The tears fell down her cheeks, upon her folded hands. Her widely opened eyes seemed to look out into a night of storms.

"Oh, what shall I do?" she moaned. "I wish I was dead--and baby too!"

"Live for the baby--let him help you out."

"Oh, he can't! I don't care enough for him. I wish I was like other mothers; but I'm not. I can't shut myself up with a baby. I'm too young."

He saw that. She was seeking the love of a man, not the care of a child.

She had the wifely pa.s.sion, but not the mother's love. He was silent; the case baffled him.

"Oh, I wish you could help me. I wish I had you all the time. I do! I don't care what you think, _I do, I do!_"

"Our home is open to you and baby, too," he said slowly. "My wife knows about you, and----"

"Who told her--did you?" she flashed out again, angrily, jealously.

"Yes. My wife is my other self," he replied quietly.

She stared at him, breathing heavily, then looked out of the window again. At last she turned to him. She seemed to refer to his invitation.

"Oh, this terrible land! Oh, I couldn't stay here. I'd go insane.

Perhaps I'm going insane anyway. Don't you think so?"

"No, I think you're a little nervous, that's all."